


tko ne važe, nema blaga

by shipwrecks



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Croatia NT, Fumbling Handjobs, Gaycation, M/M, all i ever wanted!!, self-indulgent nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 11:56:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19425487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipwrecks/pseuds/shipwrecks
Summary: Luka pulls him aside after they’re done for the day—pulls him by the sleeve of his shirt before he can hit the locker room—and says, “I’m going to Zadar for the break. it’s a little far, but I like the travel. Charlie’s staying here, wants to see his dad. you should come with me. if you haven’t already made plans,” he adds, giving Ivan a polite out. but Ivan hasn’t made any plans, and he likes Luka—wants Luka to like him.





	tko ne važe, nema blaga

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brampersandon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brampersandon/gifts).



> WeLp here's glennifer, back at it again with the vatreni feelings!! this is SO self-indulgent because i got drunk and watched the croatian coast ep of no reservations and imagined luka taking bebé ivan to zadar when he joins the national team and then caitlin yodeled at the thought and i am nothing if not dutiful to the people. so...if you're like, yes, i would like overwrought descriptions of seafood and the ocean and pent up first time handjobs then you have come to the right place!!!

**TKO NE VAŽE, NEMA BLAGA**  
_prov._ (Croatian) nothing ventured, nothing gained.

When my dad took a knife and sliced open that box and  
pulled out two Croatian football shirts for my brother and I...  
it was very powerful. Like, Yeah, we are a part of this, too.

—ivan rakitić, _players’ tribune_

“so you’ll play for Croatia—yes?”

the inflection of a question finally comes at the _yes_ —barely, like he realized that he technically had to ask.

“yeah,” Ivan replies—remembers to reply, when he realizes Bilić can't see him nodding over the phone—singing inside, his mind awhirl with excitement. “yes,” he revises, his voice firmer. “I’ll go with you. I’m going to be a part of this.”

he’s on the plane before he knows it—all the weeks leading up filled by his father talking about the homeland, more than usual, a yearning in his voice that Ivan can also feel in his bones.

  
  


he sees the training ground more than anywhere else his first few days, partly because he’s, you know, training, but also because he doesn’t really have anywhere else to go and he isn’t sure yet about which group he can slide into easily. mladen—mladen’s been great, a familiar face amongst so many new ones—showed him around a little, but he doesn’t want to push that too much, make the only person he knows tired of him already. he’s starting to get a lot more comfortable at practice—teammates making digs, him cracking a joke that gets laughs, their play finding chemistry—but he doesn’t want to push that either.

eventually, luka and charlie— _charlie?_ he wonders until he doesn’t, Ćorluka proving, brash and earnest, why the nickname stuck—invite him along for a night out and the next morning he’s hungover—mladen playfully teasing him at practice—but he feels himself fitting into the shape of where he belongs here.

  
  


Zadar in the crawling last days of summer is beautiful—sun shining overhead as a breeze rolls in from the sea.

(they were told they’d get a couple days of downtime, and Ivan shifts from foot to foot, trying to think of what he’ll do to fill that time. a lot of them are making quick trips home, especially the ones from Zagreb or just outside of it, but he can’t fly all the way to Basel—could he? _no_ —he asserts to himself—doesn’t want his father to see him coming back, tail between his legs.

Luka pulls him aside after they’re done for the day—pulls him by the sleeve of his shirt before he can hit the locker room—and says, “I’m going to Zadar for the break. it’s a little far, but I like the travel. Charlie’s staying here, wants to see his dad. you should come with me. if you haven’t already made plans,” he adds, giving Ivan a polite out. but Ivan hasn’t made any plans, and he likes Luka—wants Luka to like him.

“yeah, sure. that’d be great—yes,” he stutters through, begging his mouth to just close already, but Luka laughs kindly and slaps him on the back, a push into the locker room as he runs off to go talk to Niko about something.)

it’s incredibly easy to forget all about football, get lost in the narrow cobblestone streets that wind or dead end and immerse all his senses in a place entirely new. but the stone of old buildings smells the same—reminds Ivan of when he was young, wandering through the marketplace, trying to shake his mother and keep up with Dejan.

everything else is different, though. Luka shows him his favorite haunts, little trattorias tucked at the end of alleys where they know him well and welcome him fondly—insist that everything is on the house, but he slips notes under plates at the end of their meals anyway. they can sit out on the patios and people watch, as course after course of seafood and stews roll out and the wine bottles seem to replenish themselves without Ivan’s notice. the food is rustic and flavorful, full of all the people who’ve been here—recognizes the Italian, understands the stick-to-your-ribs Balkan. the imperfect, handmade pasta, the ragù that’s been watched over with care all day, the fish who tastes of rich spice and the sea air—Luka eats it all like it’s old hat— _I have to clean my plate, my mother is still always telling me to eat more_ —but Ivan is so intrigued by the strange, seemingly never-ending layers. he’s fit to burst after practically every meal, and he’s usually a little drunk too.

that explains how he falls asleep on the beach—Luka’d known right where there was a quiet bit of the shore, hidden behind craggy rocks—and wakes up turning pink, skin already beginning to radiate heat—tell-tale sign of the sunburn to come. Luka’s—not tan, exactly, but his skin changes under the day’s bright sun too—colors like he’s settling back in here, where he came from.

  
  


Luka wakes him up— _I’ve got a surprise for you_ —and takes him to the docks, where there’s a boat tied up and waiting for them, a man who looks like the sun has turned to leather winking at them as they cast off.

“I’ve known him...most of my life. I used to always sneak on his boats, when I wasn’t playing,” and Ivan imagines a young Luka in situ, eating strange fish and dribbling as the sun goes down. _did everyone know then_ , he thinks, _could they all see how good he was_ —

now, the sun shines behind him—lean arms and hands tightly gripping rope—all his muscles taut and Ivan realizes he’s much stronger, bigger than he thought.

“we’re just going to hang around here,” gesturing towards the open sea, the little dots on the horizon marking out the islands, “I can’t sail that well, to be honest. but I like being out on the water. calms me down, makes me forget to overthink things…” he trails off, pointedly looking away from Ivan—like he’s shared too much, but he thinks he knows how to hide it.

“it’s beautiful. I can’t believe the colors,” he breathes out, reverently. and it’s not that he hasn’t seen colors—little houses, each a different color, lining the streets of Zurich, family vacations to the Alps bursting in his mind—but this place feels like nothing else. the rich blue of the sea and sky meet, the sun overblown and saturating everything—he’ll never forget all the shades of the Adriatic.

they get out there—only one mishap along the way—and Luka finds a slow spot on the water where the boat can bob along and they can sit and relax. he pulls some wine out from seemingly nowhere and pours them two glasses—Ivan won’t refuse, of course, despite feeling like this trip’s made him 40 proof. he doesn’t know how to tell Luka that he maybe can’t handle more alcohol—gulps back most of his glass instead of saying anything.

on their way, Luka’d picked up some oysters from another boat they’d shored up alongside. he sits on the edge of the boat to shuck them, with a small paring knife and intense focus. his ability is pretty good, out of practice—hands moving like they know but are remembering. but he gets them open, messily, and Ivan joins him on the edge, refilling both their glasses for something to do—feels obligated to at least try and be helpful.

“thanks,” Luka says, and they exchange—wine for oyster. the air is briny and Ivan feels salt in the wind—he’s holding his breath, like he’s underwater. Luka picks up and tips back an oyster, takes a drink, and Ivan can exhale—not even sure why he’s feeling so unsettled. Luka’s done everything to make him comfortable—and he _is_ comfortable, or, has been—he just can’t help his mind wandering to _why—why’s he here, why’d Luka invite him—_

“are you going to eat your oyster?” Luka interrupts his thoughts. “or do you not like them? they’re weird—I’m so used to them, I guess I should have asked…” and there’s that again—hard resolve peeling back just for a moment to show something vulnerable and softer inside the shell.

“no—yes, I like them. sorry—I think the sea makes me tired,” he laughs and tips back his own oyster—pure ocean rolling down his throat that mellows out pleasantly with a sip of wine. “it’s good. it tastes like here.” and he grabs another one immediately, before he can say something stupid.

“good. I’m glad you like them,” and he pops another one in his mouth followed by more wine, and they settle into a rhythm—water lapping against the boat and the occasional seagull overhead—talking shop about the qualifiers—Estonia, mostly—somehow skirting around just what they’re qualifying for. it’s easier to talk tactics of the opponent than unpack what it’s all leading to— _take it game by game_ , Bilić had said—

(Ivan and Luka both, in their different ways, know the pressure of playing for this team, this country—but they haven’t _felt_ it yet—the way an entire nation—every time—looks at you, hope trying to spark buried underneath layers of doubt—then looks away, cynical and unsurprised, when you can’t light the fire. no, that’s something they’ll learn together too.)

“oh—” Luka says, surprised, as he twists back up from fishing something off the floor, “we drank all the wine. good thing I also packed rakija.”

Ivan isn’t entirely sure it’s a good thing, but Luka’s already opening the bottle and fetching his glass. he’s also not sure how Luka’s putting all this booze away—perhaps, like football, vigilant practice. he does look a little pink in the cheeks, a flush spreading down his chest—Ivan would probably look the same if he wasn’t already sunburnt. he certainly feels like he’s swaying, though he’s been chalking that up to the boat.

“I’m glad you came with me,” Luka says to him, looking directly at him keenly, something in his eyes—a bit softer but—mischievous like he’s seen in Charlie’s. he blinks and it’s gone, and Ivan thinks maybe he imagined it—until Luka slides the distance between them and kisses him, easy but forthright and Ivan leans into it even as he can’t figure out what's going on.

“I—what—you—” he tries to piece together a sentence as Luka cocks an eyebrow but also looks cagey— _that’s not it_ , his brain can’t work out loud, _I’m not mad—why_ —and he needs to say something coherent and he will—but then he raises his hands to begin and a wave rocks the boat and— _oh no_ —he goes off the side—hits the water with a splash that interrupts the strange atmosphere and when he comes back up for air, he can hear Luka laughing and—yeah, it was pretty funny. there’s another splash as Luka jumps in, swims up to Ivan now somewhat clinging to the side of the boat just to get a grip on something.

“I didn’t realize I was such a good kisser that you’d fall off the boat in shock.”

Ivan chuckles to reassure him that he’s fine with this—with him—

“sorry,” he finally gets out. “I think I’m a little drunk, and um—surprised. that’s all.”

raised eyebrows, amused smile. “you’ve been staring at me all day. I was wondering if you were going to, but you didn’t so…I did.”

Ivan’s _really_ grateful for the sunburn. “oh,” he replies dumbly.

Luka swims closer, grabs the ladder next to Ivan’s shoulder to keep himself steady and moves to kiss him again. Ivan’s more prepared this time—properly kisses him back, opens his mouth for him with a pleased sigh—instinctively curls a leg around Luka’s, bends to his touch when he places his hand on Ivan’s side—trailing down his torso, feeling muscle beneath soft skin.

Luka’s a good kisser like he’s a good footballer—unexpectedly, then immediately unsurprisingly, a satisfying combination of effort and reading the game. Ivan’s been so preoccupied with the team, fitting in, this—whatever this is, or could be—hadn’t occurred to him. (not true, strictly speaking—his mind had wandered to fumbling around—desperate and stupid—with mladen a few years ago when he couldn’t fall asleep once.) _maybe this is fitting in_ —Luka grabbing his thigh while Ivan’s hips roll toward him and his other leg wraps around his waist— _maybe this is—_

Luka laughs into his mouth and then Ivan buries his face in Luka’s shoulder—whispering _I’m definitely a little drunk_ —and Luka replies—right into his ear, his deep voice lower, throaty— _You need to come home more often and practice._ Ivan’s head spins and if he wasn't firmly in the crook of Luka’s neck, he’d have sunk underwater—still feels like he’s got no air.

he could maybe do this well into the night—floating, placid with just an undercurrent of _want_ —but evening looms on the horizon and they do have to get the boat back. the sky’s turning a soft shade of pink—Luka helps him back into the boat and kindly does not comment on his shorts plastered to his skin and how he’s obviously hard. just before Luka can sit down to start sailing them back, Ivan notices on him a similar problem and he bites on a grin—pleased it’s both of them. comfortable, pleased he’s here.

  
  


Ivan’s in bed, awake and thinking about how tomorrow they’ll go back to Zagreb and start practicing again and the haze will lift. this is easy—sun shining, no agenda, Luka and him— _luka and him_ —

a soft knock interrupts him, and when he opens the door, Luka’s there—low light from the hall haloing his frame.

“can’t sleep. thinking about going back tomorrow and…”

“me too. come in?”

Luka chuckles, mutters a _thanks_ , steps in his room—actually Luka’s room, who’s taken the guest room while Ivan’s been here— _my room has a better bed, you can have it_ —and moves past Ivan to turn on a lamp on the nightstand. warm orange light floods the space, and Luka sinks into the mattress.

“I don’t really sleep that well in the guest room—feel like a guest,” he laughs, “and now I’m too concentrated on training again.”

“you could’ve slept here—with me,” tumbles out as the preemptive response to _no, you should have the good bed_ as he takes a seat at the foot of the bed, tucking a leg under himself. Luka smiles. “yeah, I guess I could have. Bilić is going to play you soon, I bet,” he pivots, and Ivan can’t help but beam—that’s what he wants, that’s what’s been occupying most of his thoughts at night, when he isn’t immersed in Zadar, and he remembers why he’s here in the first place.

“yeah? you think so?”

(Ivan doesn’t know what he himself thinks—knows what he hopes, even has assurances from Bilić to bolster the hope, but that’s no guarantee—he’s nineteen, he’s new, and he’s...well, he just feels like he has a lot to prove.)

he nods, with a look on his face, “yeah,” with a tone like _of course_. “you’re good. I’d play you.”

Ivan knows it must be obvious how ridiculous he looks—a dumb grin on his face at offhand comments like that. Luka taps a foot against his thigh— _hey, I mean it_ —and there’s that keen stare again—with the benefit of hindsight, Ivan can now unfold it and see—arch—but fond—hungrier underneath that echoes something inside himself, what’s been building since he got in the car—maybe earlier—

 _C’mere_ —and Ivan crawls across the bed—definitely looking ridiculous—and Luka places a hand on his shoulder, just a slight push—and he turns, back into the mattress, unfurls his legs to let Luka settle between them instinctual. _your legs are so fucking long_ —knees knocking together—and then, Luka kisses his neck, actually, teeth scrape against sensitive skin and bite—just hard enough for Ivan to tilt his chin up and expose his throat.

he sighs with a shiver when Luka finds his pulse—they can both feel his blood pounding— _you can’t—feels good but_ —no marks. moves to his collarbone to show he understands. a delicate touch running up his leg, bunching up the fabric of his shorts—fingers sliding underneath and then wrapping around his thigh—Ivan can feel his hand—bigger than he realized—grasping, and he’s suddenly fuzzy—smashing his lips against Luka's, sloppy, earnest—fully short-circuits when Luka reaches into his shorts and gets a grip on him—easily stroking him—Ivan can’t stop the moan, loud, _there_ in the silence, which Luka catches in his mouth—his laugh still escaping—not unkind, more like surprise. enjoyment.

it’s good—the way he’s—Ivan rolls his hips up into him, can’t help but try and get faster friction—something like a whimper-pant when Luka runs a calloused thumb over the tip of his cock, nips at his bottom lip. he tugs up Ivan’s shirt—the air hitting his chest salty and cool—and hovers above him, just long enough for Ivan to see the gears turning, before he dips down to Ivan’s hip—runs his tongue across Ivan’s stomach, low near his waistband, near his cock—mind overloads, even just letting himself think of that—and then he murmurs into his skin, wrist twisting, pausing on an upstroke— _I’m glad you’re here_ —speeds up again, goes to nudge Ivan’s chin with his nose, kisses his jaw and then is right next to his ear— _you’re going to be good enough for us_ —

fast and messy—Ivan comes, Luka strokes him though it—can feel him against his thigh, even through fabric. Ivan’s dizzy—he’s spinning—he’s underwater. the atmosphere—with the brine of the ocean and possibility—imprints itself upon him. he’ll never forget all the shades of this.

Luka reaches into his own sweatpants, starts jerking himself quick and dirty—holding himself up over Ivan with just one arm. Ivan circles his arms around Luka’s neck, runs fingers through his hair—pulls, shaky—unsure—too hard—and Luka melts into it—neck bends, elbow bends—unsteady above Ivan. he likes it and Ivan meets his eyes—files this new information away, with a clever look of his own—smile like the sun spreading across his face. he winds strands around his fingers to tug again—Luka makes a noise, rough, that laughs on the end. they’re both laughing—even as they’re breathing hard—til Luka can only get out short gasps—he’s going to— _Ivan wants to—could happen again and he wants to_ —but for now he kisses him, licks into his mouth—with him to the edge, where he comes with a shudder—immediately giving out above Ivan, falling into his arms.

Ivan doesn’t know what to say now, but Luka comfortably rolls over and grabs a tissue from the nightstand, cleans them up. “I _do_ mean it,” he repeats after he turns out the light—then pauses as he’s sit up, strangely hesitant. — _inside the shell_ —and Ivan dives in—says, “sleep here. you’re not a guest,” which relaxes Luka back into bed, confident resolve reforming even as Ivan can now see something new beneath it.

  
  


they link up differently, after, Slaven commenting offhandedly that the little holiday must have done them good, focused them—Ivan prays he’s not turning red (other than his finally-fading sunburn) but Luka just nods at Bilić in agreement, a sly smile playing on the corner of his mouth at Ivan.

he feels different too. he’s even more eager for a chance, for Bilić to put him in and _let_ him prove that he’s meant to be here—because who knows what will happen. Ivan’s nineteen—but he’s still wanted this for most of his life, the opportunity to wear the shirt with his own name across the back. nerves flare, to be sure—legends have worn the kit, big sleeves to fill. his heart, though—his heart already thrums with pride—offered a chance to be a part of something that started years ago and now it’s starting for him.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**11 years later.**

Ivan lines up the ball as Akinfeev gets in position—have to do this a second time, and like before, everything’s a noisy blur until it silences under the pounding in his head— _I’ll go with you—I’m going to be a part of this_ —focuses intensely and all he sees is the ball hitting the back of the net—running forward, arms outstretched—then he can’t see anything at all—buried beneath all of them—

he could—maybe does—pass out under the weight— _feels_ what he’s done—what he’s helped them do, ribs could crack under his heart’s pressure—

(in the locker room, after the final, Luka thinks he’d have cried if not for how truly _drained_ he is—eyes still watery—shirt sticking to his back with all the effort of the last 32 days. Ivan pulls him to his chest—tries to keep him steady as it feels like he’s plunged underwater—rocking slowly like he’s on the Adriatic. the cure for everything, they say, is salt water: sweat, tears, or the sea.)

in Luka’s arms, that night after quarterfinals, they can’t do much more than breathe—physically, emotionally exhausted, even knowing there’s more to go—but he settles and Luka whispers into his hair _We’re doing it—You did it for us—_ Ivan could burst. Luka tips his chin up—looks at him with that keen stare—eyes tired but shining—Ivan’s biting his grin like he’s nineteen again, finding his footing on the precipice of expectations and want—and Luka kisses him, easy but forthright— _I’m glad you’re here—I’m glad you came with me_.

It’s funny, I’m a lot older now than I was when that box arrived  
at our house. But I still never want to take the shirt off.

—ivan rakitić, _players’ tribune_

**Author's Note:**

> HEY EVERYONE, PLEASE READ [IVAN'S PLAYERS' TRIBUNE](https://www.theplayerstribune.com/en-us/articles/ivan-rakitic-croatia-the-best-shirt-in-the-world) BECAUSE I IN NO WAY GAVE YOU THE WORST OF THIS PISCES' FEELINGS!!!!
> 
> as always, this is for caitlin!!!! whomst i love for many reasons but most especially for encouraging me to tug on every self-indulgent thread and produce.......this mess! i forgot at first but i hath now Officially gifted it 2 you! luv u <3


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